


red lights i'll run (what i got you need it)

by Japery



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas, Facials, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Gratuitous Use of ABBA, Lapdance, M/M, Mutual Pining, Platonic Kissing, Rimming, Slow Burn, Tabletop Gaming, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 22:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15375090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Japery/pseuds/Japery
Summary: “No, no, I don’t want to pick up, not really.” JT’s suddenly glancing off somewhere behind him as he speaks. “I just—you’re a Tyson.”“Sure am, buddy.” Tyson confirms, confused. He follows JT’s gaze to where it’s  anchored, and all he can see is Josty, trying and failing to charm one of Lisa’s friends—one of Lisa’s very male friends—into buying him a drink.“Oh.” Tyson says again. “You want Tyson tips.”





	red lights i'll run (what i got you need it)

**Author's Note:**

> i don't claim to know and mean no harm to the people represented in this fic, if you found this by googling yourself or anyone you know, i'd advise you to click right on out of here.
> 
> i haven't written a fic in literal years and now i've written 15k about dumb hockey players named tyson falling in love 
> 
> this was inspired by the original color glasses videos and the complete lack of comphjost longfic, and then I made it completely about gabetyson and did nothing to actually rectify that lack. this follows a vaguely accurate timeline of the 2017-2018 season, from the early december road trip through to early march, except that i totally forgot about gabe's suspension and that nailed it exists anachronistically. 
> 
> thanks especially to erica, who basically betaed this monstrosity, and the a360 creatives for enabling me 
> 
> also thanks to carly rae jepsen for the title from "making the most of the night"

Tyson has a theory about Hockey Age. It’s kind of like dog age, in that they’re worth a lot more than human years. Not to say that hockey players weren’t human--although Tyson had a few questions about some goalies—but there was like, a shelf life on how long you could be a hockey player before you had to retire and turn into like, Keefer. For example, in hockey age, people like Tyson and Gabe were about the age where they bought houses and drank fancy wines from online services and played board games with their neighbors, and people like Comes were basically planning their days around getting the early bird senior special at Denny’s. Nate was only twenty-two, but in hockey years, he was old enough to have to start worrying about things like taxes, and 401ks or whatever. 

“What’s a 401k?” Nate asks, from his place on his couch, rifling lazily through Tyson’s Netflix queue, Tyson using his ridiculously comfortable thigh as a headrest as he sits on the floor explaining his brilliant theory.

“Shit if I know, Dogg, that’s not the point.” Tyson says impatiently, trying to snatch the controller from Nate, who just holds it up higher, rucking his shirt up over his abs in the process. Tyson weighs the pros and cons of getting up now, and gives up in disgust. 

“What is the point?” Nate asks, stopping curiously to read the description on a documentary about sushi. 

“Point is, I think it’s about time for me to have a kid.” 

“Oh, Tys, I thought you’d never ask.” Nate chirps, dryly, and Tyson flushes. “There might be some biological issues, though.” Tyson swats at his tree-trunk thigh. 

“Not a real kid, you scrub. Like a hockey kid.” 

“Oh, like a rookie.” Nate pauses, letting the fake trailer for Jiro Dreams of Sushi play in the background. “I thought I was your rookie.” 

“You don’t count. No offense, but you were like seventy when I met you.”

“Offense, that’s rude.” Nate nudges the back of Tyson’s head with his leg. “Take me to Denny’s to apologize for being rude at me with your rude theories.” 

“You’re just proving them here.” Tyson says, scowling like he’s not clearly gonna be taking them to Denny’s later. “So are you gonna help me or not?” 

Nate shifts a little, though not enough to knock Tyson from his spot, finally choosing to restart an episode of “Nailed It!” Tyson had had to stop because Teri had gotten too crazy about it. “Sure, as long as it’s not like that time you had us practice kissing.” 

“Shut up, you loved that.” Tyson rolls his eyes, but he’s relieved. Now that’s he’s got Nate, he’s got everything he needs for his plan. 

// 

Sam is the perfect rookie for Tyson. He’s like twelve, and he looks twelve, and he’s everything Tyson was five years ago, except Frencher, and Tyson was totally ready to take him under his big, beautiful wings. Tyson was always a little intimidated when rookies were bigger than him, like Nate, or Mikko, or Big Z, who had turned out to be like super married and a thousand times more together than Tyson had ever been.

He gets a chance to execute his plan during team drinks in a bar in Tampa where absolutely no one knows any of them from Adam, and Tyson had managed to convince a bunch of them they needed a chance to drink away yet another losing streak. Nate was a bit reluctant, but some puppy dog eyes and best friend coercion was all he needed, he had other Tyson wrangle the rest of the rookies for some old-fashioned team bonding. 

Sam looks a little out-of-place at the table next to EJ, who is telling him some horror story about Roy that Sam only looks like he half-understands. Tyson swings an arm around him. “G!” Tyson proclaims,, pressing a Shirley Temple in his hands that looks more or less like Tyson’s sangria, which he’d already drank about half of for courage. Sam looks a little startled, but eyes the drink’s umbrella curiously. “You wanna stick with me tonight? I’ll help you learn to pick up like an NHL 18 pro, bro. Trust me, I’m the best.” Tyson waggles his eyebrows for emphasis, politely ignoring EJ, who is snorting into his drink, mouthing “pro, bro” over and over again. 

Sam has turned bright red, and is biting his bottom lip nervously. Tyson reassesses his pitch. “Oh, are you into guys?” Tyson asks, lowering his voice slightly, and Sam turns even redder. “I can work with that. Actually, that might even be easier, you’re really rocking the whole twink thing. A lot of dudes are really into that. I mean, I’m not really but—”

“I’m engaged!” Sam sputters out, looking completely overwhelmed, and EJ just outright bursts into laughter. “Sorry, but I don’t, we’ve been together for a long time. Her name is Claudia.” He says, and there’s a dreamy quality to the way he says her name that just breaks Tyson’s heart completely. 

“Oh.” Tyson says, as the umbrella falls from his drink. “Congratulations.” He ventures, and Sam nods, the color disappearing from his face and going straight into Tyson’s, accompanied by a deep-white panic rising from somewhere in his chest towards his throat. “So, you’re engaged, and Z’s married, and what, are you secret married too Johnson?” Tyson asks, his voice getting dangerously scratchy and his grip getting tight around his glass.

EJ looks at him pityingly. “To ride a horse is to marry the sky.” He says pithily, and that’s the exact right time for Nate to emerge from the bar entrance with a sparkly pink crown on his head proclaiming it Lisa’s 21st birthday. 

“God, if it not the right time for Nathan MacKinnon to be good at everything.” Tyson says under his breath as he turns to Nate with wide eyes and fake smile and a sudden desire to develop that on-ice best friend chemistry right here in this bar and let Nate and the undisclosed number of birthday celebrants he had somehow managed to procure turn around and very kindly not do this to him, personally. 

Unfortunately, Tyson develops no such telepathic power, and right behind Nate comes a veritable gaggle of partygoers flooding the bar, and Sam coughs into his Shirley Temple, and Tyson does genuinely want to sink into the floor and die. 

//

He finds an empty spot in a booth the corner of the bar to sit with his third glass of sangria and Nate’s crown, which Nate had given him out of pity or as an apology or whatever, and just kind of wallows for a while. Tyson sips at his drink, letting the low roar of Lisa’s Nathan MacKinnon-assured banger of a birthday party settle in around him, as he tries and fails to stop thinking about how much of a loser he is. 

Just as he’s scratching the surface of his existential loathing—Here is TB, and the B stands for bad at life and bad at hockey—Gabe decides to waltz out of the ether that bore him, he of the effortlessly tousled hair and a shirt Tyson could see his abs through without even really trying. 

Gabe tries to take a seat next to him, but Tyson tries to make himself as heavy as possible to stop him, and Gabe is somehow considerate enough not to use his obscene strength just to move him over and sits in the seat across from Tyson instead. Tyson doesn’t look up at him, so Gabe lightly taps their ankles together. “Heard you struck out as G’s wingman.” Gabe says, like a jerk. “You can be my wingman instead.” He offers. “I’d be better at it.” 

“Of course you would.” Tyson snorts, kicking away Gabe’s heel. “You don’t need a wingman. You can get anyone you want without even trying.” 

Tyson laughs weakly at his own joke, but Gabe just looks at him weirdly. “Not anyone,” Gabe says, his voice low, the way it is when Tyson’s scored a goal and all the cellies have died down and it’s just the two of them. “There’s some people I might need a little help with.” 

“Yeah, right.” Tyson says bitterly, giving Gabe and his hair and the way his shirt strains under the mass of his arms a once over. “Look at you. You’re like, Brad Pitt Benjamin Button.” Tyson laughs again, and something in his chest clogs up. “I’m like Benjamin Button too, but not even like the hot Benjamin Button, just the wrinkly old, old helpless CGI Benjamin Button coming out with like the suspenders and the glasses and everything, or even the CGI baby Benjamin Button, and I’m actually really really old and bad at hockey and I’m gonna die soon except backwards so it’ll be like I never existed or whatever. I’ve never actually seen the movie.” 

“Tyson.” Gabe says, gently, leaning towards him like he’s about to say something, and Tyson groans at him. He doesn’t need to be comforted by his captain right now, thanks. 

“Go get me a drink, Gabriel.” Tyson says firmly, closing his eyes, burying his head in his arms, and pushing his empty glass towards Gabe, who takes it, shakes his head, and heads off towards the bar. 

Almost as soon as Gabe has gone, Tyson can hear someone getting into spot where Gabe had gone. “You’d better have stolen me a drink off some drunk coed’s table to be coming back this fast, Landesnerd.” Tyson grumbles, looking up to see a still broad, but much slighter figure than Gabe across from him. 

Compher who already looks a little nervous, widens his eyes at Tyson, pushing what Tyson supposes is his own beer at him in tribute. Tyson hates beer, but he’ll take it, nursing it slowly as he looks at Compher, who very much isn’t saying anything. 

“Thanks. If you’re here to invite me to your second daughter’s bar mitzfah, I’m all booked up.” Tyson takes a sip of the beer, which is disgusting, but still has alcohol in it, so he just makes his least offensive face and puts it down. 

“I think the gender neutral term is b’nei mitzfah actually.” Comph says, and Tyson rolls his eyes. 

“Well, if you’re just here to teach me about cultural sensitivity training, that’s super, but I was in the middle of something.” Well, self-loathing, but that was something. 

Compher is quiet again, playing with the sleeves on his jacket. “I, uh, heard you were offering advice on how to hook up?” Tyson stares at Comph for a second, and nods. 

“I guess you could call it that.” Tyson says. Every word looks like its a struggle for Compher, who might be trying to get his jacket to eat him, which is pretty #relatable here. “Do you need help learning how to pick-up?” Tyson ventures, and Compher shakes his head wildly. 

“No, no, I don’t want to pick up, not really.” JT’s suddenly glancing off somewhere behind him as he speaks. “I just—you’re a Tyson.” 

“Sure am, buddy.” Tyson confirms, confused. He follows JT’s gaze to where it’s anchored, and all he can see is Josty, trying and failing to charm one of Lisa’s friends—one of Lisa’s very male friends—into buying him a drink. “Oh.” Tyson says again. “You want Tyson tips.” He realizes, the thing in his chest suddenly relaxing and creeping up into a smile. 

“Yeah, I guess.” JT says with a shrug. “I figured with you and Gabe—” 

Tyson snorts, leaning over the table to clap Comph on the shoulder. “No way, you’re better off going straight to the source. No one knows a Tyson like a Tyson.”

JT slumps into his chair, relieved, his gaze never straying from Josty. “God, I don’t even know where to start.” 

Tyson smiles, glances at Josty, who has struck out and is on his way back towards where Kerf is talking to Sam and Mikko about something they definitely don’t understand, and pushes the beer back towards Comph. “Well first, drink this, and go ask him to dance. Tyson Tip No. 1: Tysons love dancing.” 

He shoves Comph’s shoulder to push him out of the booth. Comph’s eyes widen, but he nods, downing the rest of the beer and handing the empty bottle off to Tyson as he stumbles off towards Josty and manages enough for Josty to laugh and pull him off to where a throng of Lisa’s friends are dabbing to some Bleachers’ song. 

“I know that face,” Gabe’s voice comes in, taking his spot back as he sets another sangria on the table. “You’ve got your scheming face on. You’ve got new schemes, Four.”

Tyson rolls his eyes, snatching up his new drink and sipping the straw triumphantly. “They’re not schemes, Gabriel. They’re plots. I’ve got new plots.” Gabe chuckles at him fondly. 

“All right.” Gabe leans in, resting his elbows on the table. “So what are we plotting?” 

Tyson thumbs towards the dance floor. Josty’s trying to do some kind of audacious hip swivel, and JT seems a key change away from collapsing, but they look like they’re having fun. 

Gabe follows Tyson’s gaze, and then looks back at him, and there’s something weird there. But it’s Gabe weird, so it’s a good enough kind of weird that Tyson just settles into it.

// 

There’s a knock on the door, too early for Tyson’s liking, so he just pretends it’s a dream and tries to bury his face into these starchy hotel sheets until whoever it is goes away. 

No dice, and the knocking comes again, polite and insistent. 

There’s a groan from somewhere to Tyson’s left, and a pillow sails across the room to smack against Tyson’s back. “Ugh, what the fuck, Dogg?” Tyson grumbles. Nate just groans, longer this time, burrowing back into the cocoon he’d made out of his comforter. 

Tyson sighs and rolls out of bed, his head pounding the second his feet hit carpets, and pads his way to the door with as much petulance as he can muster. 

When he opens the door, he finds a sheepish looking JT Compher, looking freshly showered and spiffy in a weather-inappropriate peacoat. He’s holding a box of donuts out, like a peace offering, and Tyson snatches up a bear claw. 

“Hi.” He says. “You look awful.” Tyson bristles at that, although, if he looks as bad as he feels, he probably does look like shit. JT’s right, but Tyson doesn’t like his tone, so he argues. 

“Fuck you, I’m beautiful. Tell him Nate.” Nate makes a noise that doesn’t sound entirely human, but Tyson chooses to take it as an affirmative. “Thanks, bro.” 

“Tyson Tip #2: Don’t interrupt our sleep.” Tyson grumbles half-heartedly, picking at the bear claw to avoid destroying the structure before he really wanted to.

“Oh, I knew that one.”

Tyson looks at him. “Okay, cool, lesson imparted, I’m a great teacher, go get the boy.” He swats his hand in the air, trying to usher Comph out of his doorway and back at anything resembling a normal hour. 

“Actually,” Comph says stubbornly. “I was wondering if we could take a walk? After you get dressed?” 

Nate makes another noise from his bed. “Yeah, go, get out of here!” He grumbles, like the monster he is. Tyson looks down at his bear claw and sighs. 

 

// 

“I don’t think I know how to talk to him.” JT tells him. They’re leaning against the wall outside the pool, watching an old man try to skim out a candy bar wrapper. 

“Don’t tap on the glass. You’ll scare him.” Tyson quips. 

“I meant Josty, asshole.” JT huffs, wrapping his arms over his chest. “Ugh, that’s what I mean. I’m trying to be less of a dick.” He’s blushing again, like he was last night, and it really looks like he’s kicking himself over this. 

“Tysons do like dick, historically.” Tyson confirms, leaning back against the wall in his best approximation of a thoughtful person. “We’re hockey players, bud. We’re conditioned for mean. Tysons especially. I have no idea what to do when people are nice to me, man.” Tyson thinks about it, about how much of a mess he is even when it’s Gabe doing something stupid and over-the-top nice for Altitude like writing him a fake Valentine’s card. “That’s a Tyson Tip. Number three.” 

JT shakes his head. “I don’t know. I want to try something.” 

Tyson considers telling him to write a sappy Valentine’s day card, and shakes his head. He thinks about it, remembers that equally sappy thing Sportsnet did with Josty and his mom when he was on Team Canada that Tyson’s mom sent to him in an attempt to make him cry and get her a better birthday present—which he did, and his mom was laughing all the way to her all-expenses paid cruise around Hawaii. “He’s really close to his mom, right? His family? Try talking about them with him. Get to know them, or whatever. Tysons love their mamas.” 

“All right, I think I have an idea.” JT says, after a pause. “Thanks.” He looks at Tyson weirdly, like he’s parsing something. “Are you close? With Gabe’s mom?” He asks, out of nowhere. 

Tyson frowns at him, and his headache pounds. “I mean, I helped him buy her a scarf once?” He ventures. Tyson doesn’t really know Gabe’s mom, except that she likes the scarves he picks out because her son is a hopeless idiot who thinks Avalanche branded golfbags are a good present for your family members, but from what he’s gathered, she’s pretty cool. JT seems to find this acceptable, nods, and turns to go, determined. 

God, rookies are weird. 

//

Tyson finds himself next to Gabe on the plane, while Gabe is putting stuff in his overhead container. He still looks a little peaky from the night before, but not in like a noticeable way to anyone who didn’t know Gabe well enough to figure it out by the contour of his shoulders and the shininess of his hair. 

“Hey,” Tyson says, turning around to peer over the seat and cheerfully trying to will himself to look at Gabe’s face and not where his shirt is riding up over his abs. “How’s your mom?” 

Gabe pushes his luggage in and turns to look at Tyson, one nigh-invisible eyebrow rising up to his hairline. “Why are you asking?” Gabe shoots back, tone skeptical. “Are you trying to own me again? Is Nate hiding somewhere ready to help you roast me about getting owned?” 

Tyson scrunches up his nose. “Nate’s in the bathroom, come on.” He says with a huff. “This is what I get for trying to be considerate I guess.”

Gabe softens. “She’s great. She and my sister have started taking hot yoga classes. I’ve been thinking about checking it out, if you wanted to join me.” 

Tyson snorts. “And see you in yoga pants all the time? No thanks, that’s too much for me. man.” 

Gabe laughs and looks over Tyson, like he’s considering something. “I’d make it work.” He says, and Tyson shakes his head at him, like they don’t both know that would be the problem. “Did you want to help me pick out Christmas presents again, when we get home?”

“That depends, will you—” 

Gabe cuts him off with another chuckle and a wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll get you some mall cookies.” 

Tyson shrugs and tries not to flush. “Well, if you can figure out something for my mom that’s better than a cruise, keep me posted.” He mutters, and sinks into his seat, just in time for Nate barrel in and clamber over him to get to the window seat. 

He can just feel Gabe watching them as Nate elbows Tyson in an attempt to get his giant body past without an ounce of patience enough to let Tyson move himself. 

//

Gabe picks him up on an off-Wednesday after a win, meets him at his door with a fresh hot chocolate and one of those gentle, wrinkly eye smiles. “I’m definitely giving you way too much sugar today.” He remarks as they pull out of his neighborhood. 

“Does that make you my sugar daddy?” Tyson asks, before he realizes, and he’s about to scramble to take it back when—

“You’re already such a brat.” Gabe says matter-of-factly, and Tyson takes the opportunity to punch him in the shoulder. “I’ll crash this car and we will both die, and Nate will lay more flowers on my grave than yours.” 

Tyson scowls. “You’re a dirty liar, Nate would mourn me so hard. He’d vow to never marry and they’d make a documentary about it.” 

“They’d call it: Death of a Brat Who Once Threw Up On Patrick Roy After Trying to Eat a Hockey Puck On a Dare.” 

“I won that dare and you know it!” Tyson exclaims, throwing up his arms dramatically. “Also, that’s a terrible title for a documentary. Never name anything ever. I feel sorry for your first kid, because you’re gonna name it Ikea.” 

“Ikea is a strong, Swedish name for a strong, Swedish girl.” 

They stop at a red light, and Tyson’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He fishes it out, expecting the normal off-day racket of a meme from Teri or Nate complaining about French boys’ emoji literacy. Instead there’s a text from JT. Jompher Tompher: ‘Hey how do tysons feel about homecooked meals’ it reads, and Tyson rolls his eyes. 

‘tysons love homecooked meals, like everyone else in the world’ He replies, adding in an eye-rolling emoji for good measure. 

‘So is blue apron okay or do I have to find another recipe’ ‘?’ ‘He misses home and I wanna make him something for xmas’ JT sends in quick succession and Tyson groans, audibly. Gabe looks at him curiously. 

“Rookies are so dumb, I swear.” Tyson tells him, and Gabe nods reassuringly, and mentions something about how Mikko put dish soap in his dishwasher the other day, and he found him surrounded by bubbles in his kitchen.

‘ur talking to his mom rite? get a recipe from her. tyson tip 4’ 

‘Got it thx’ JT sends back, along with a string of food related emojis.

“Are you still trying to matchmake the rookies?” Gabe asks him, his nose wrinkling a little. 

“Yeah, I think Siemens and Warsofsky need to pound out all that sexual tension.” Tyson quips, banging his fist together sideways, and he manages a laugh from Gabe. “I’m getting Compher to weasel a family recipe from Josty’s mom.” 

“Huh.” Gabe says, elegantly, with a shake of his head. “My mom makes great Christmas ham.” He looks a little wistful, probably thinking about how he won’t be able to get to visit them this year. 

“My dad makes this potato soup,” Tyson supplies. “He puts bacon and chives and everything in it, and it’s like the warmest thing in the world.” He won’t get to visit them either this year, because it’s actually his turn to host the team Christmas party, now that he’s got house money, but he knows it’s not nearly as much of a trek as what Gabe has to do. 

“That doesn’t sound like it’s on your diet plan.” Gabe teases, and Tyson tells him ham doesn’t either, and they snipe at each other along those lines until they come out of the mall with most of their shopping done. Tyson comes out of it with a fantastic little charm bracelet for his mom—and Gabe actually managed to identify some charms she’d like—a fancy skillet for his dad, and he had them make a Build-a-Bear to look like him to send to his sister, and Tyson’s already loving how much she’ll hate that. Gabe had gotten out of it pretty well too: he copied Tyson’s bear idea for his twin sister, although he made himself some kind of dog that Tyson insisted matched his eyes better, and Tyson tracked down a quilt from one of the stalls that was perfect for Gabe’s mom. 

Gabe steals one of his cookies when he drops Tyson back off at home, and gobbles it up while they sit in Tyson’s driveway for a bit. Sometimes, Tyson wants to sit down everyone who thinks Gabriel Landeskog is perfect and show them this man with crumbs in his lap and chocolate smeared over his teeth, but he kind of wants to keep that image just for himself. 

//

After off-day practice he and Nate stock up at a Target and spend the day decorating his place for the Christmas party. Or well, Tyson supervises and eats chocolate Santas while he makes Nate use his big tallboy frame to find the perfect place to put the mistletoe. 

“Maybe a little higher?” Tyson offers helpfully from his spot on the couch, biting the hat off of a chocolate Santa. Nate does so dutifully, the tip of his Santa hat jostling against the ceiling as he does so. “To the right? No, to the left. To the left. Everything you own in a box to the le—” 

“Tys.” Nate interrupts impatiently, like a heathen. Tyson shoots him a dirty look, but Nate is so inoculated to those he just ignores it. “Can’t you just get off your ass and do it yourself?” 

Tyson snorts. “If I come over there while you’re over there, we’re gonna have to kiss, and you’ve already made yourself clear on your position about that.” 

Nate makes a noise and there’s a thump as he jumps off the stepladder and marches towards Tyson, mistletoe in hand. Tyson pushes himself up against the arm of the couch, just in time for Nate to throw the mistletoe into his lap and wrench him forward by the sweater, smashing their lips together in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, Tyson’s mouth still full of chocolate. 

Tyson sputters unattractively, pushing Nate’s stupidly thick chest away from him. “Gross.” He grumbles, wiping his mouth with his arm. “You don’t have to kiss me like EJ.” 

Nate rolls his eyes, wiping his own mouth on his shirt, shoving Tyson’s legs over to sink onto the couch next to him. “Why are you we putting up mistletoe anyway? Are you finally tricking Gabe into kissing you?” 

“It’s for the rookies,” Tyson says, and Nate looks at him skeptically. 

“What, are you trying to seduce G’s fiancee away from him? I didn’t know you were such a homewrecker.” Tyson punches him in the shoulder. They both know Nate barely feels it, but he makes a scandalized face anyway. 

“It’s for Josty and Comph.” Tyson explains. “I’m gonna Hallmark them together like it’s A Christmas Prince.” 

Nate sinks back further into the couch. “Does that make you the little girl with spina bifida or the magic nut?” Tyson hits him again. 

“You know there was nothing magic about the nut, it just had secrets in it!” This, of all things, makes Nate laugh, and he grabs the mistletoe back from him. 

“I’m gonna put it on the outside of the backyard door. That’ll be like, adorable.” Tyson considers this, finds it good, and eats the rest of his chocolate Santa. 

This is going to be the best Christmas ever and it’ll all be because of him. 

// 

This is going to be the worst Christmas ever, and it’s all because of Arizona. Nothing about this game was supposed to be so keyed up. Gabe was finally back on the ice with them, they’d just swept their series with the Pens, and they’d managed to take the Kings to OT, and they were on an upswing, and it was just supposed to be a quick, loose game before Christmas. Tyson had spent the plane ride figuring out what kind of snacks he was going to serve and how many vegetable platters he needed to buy and sure, he had been focused on winning the game, and he started out vibing pretty tight, but he had been caught a little unprepared for how chippy it would be. 

And he’d definitely been unprepared for blocking a shot with his hand and being unceremoniously ushered off in the middle of the first to find out he’d broken one of the bones in his palm because he’d wanted to be a hero to Oliver Ekman-Larsson. It was pretty stupid, now that he thought about it, because O.E.L. looks like a prince, and he was like, Donkey. 

He’s stuck in the locker room, nursing his hand and an inordinate amount of painkillers when they rush Sam in, hoarse and winded and only half speaking English, and then Nate comes in, a little bruised and angrier than Tyson had ever seen him, ejected for misconduct because some non decided to take a run at their littlest rookie. 

They don’t talk for a while, sitting on the bench together, Tyson just trying to look his most reassuring—which while on painkillers, probably looks pretty freakish—as Nate looks back and forth between him and the trainer’s office, both of them only slightly encouraged by the sound of the rest of their team ripping the Coyotes apart goal after goal. 

“You’re not like Donkey.” Nate says out of the blue, sounding kind of annoyed. Tyson realizes he might have actually said something after all. His breathing has finally evened, and he’s finally stopped pacing, wiping at his face with his Gatorade towel. “If you were Donkey, that’d make me Shrek, and Shrek can actually protect people. I’m Donkey.” 

Tyson makes a face at him, and wants to swat at his big dumb shoulders, before he remembers his hand. “Shut up man.” He grumbles, helpfully. “It’s not your job to protect people. It’s supposed to be mine, and it’s not even.” He looks at Nate, who blinks at him with his big, bright eyes, and it’s not usually a thing for Tyson to remember how young Nate actually is, how much older he is, but it’s hitting him now. The towel is wrapped around his shoulders like a security blanket, and Tyson thinks about it, thinks about how Nate was eighteen years old and given the weight of a franchise on his back because they pulled his name first out of a hat and he spends every summer going back to a town where his hero waits for him with more and more Cup rings on his fingers while Nate carries all the notoriety of the worst team in the league. 

Nate is twenty-two years old, and he was seventy when Tyson met him. 

Tyson wants to say something, but he’s not really good at saying anything that means anything, and he’s especially not really good at saying anything that means anything while on painkillers for his broken hand. So instead, he says: “I think Gabe is Shrek, actually. His head’s big enough, and he’s actually really gross.” 

Nate actually smiles a little at that, weak and watery as he looks up at Tyson. “And what does that make me?” 

Tyson tilts his head at him. “You’re Lord Farquaad.” 

“Shut up, you’re Lord Farquaad.” 

And there’s the laugh. 

// 

Somehow, Tyson is lucid enough to wake up some semblance of early to prepare for the party. He’s glad he and Nate did most of the decorating early, because Tyson has to do everything one-handed, and there was no way he could tangle with Christmas lights like that. He texts Nate to pick some stuff up, because he can’t exactly drive right now, let alone hold groceries, and tries to time when Nate’ll wake up and actually get him anything compared to what he has now. 

He figures he can at least get the ham started, and gets all the crap out of the oven to preheat it, setting it all on the kitchen table to deal with later. The ham’s not so big—he couldn’t score a huge one on such short notice, given he’d only bought a ham on a whim a couple days after Gabe had given him the idea—and he can tuck it under his arm like a baby to baste in the pan. He’s trying to figure out how to finagle the pan into the oven when the doorbell rings twice. 

Tyson adjusts his sweater and looks up curiously half-sliding over his hardwood floor to the door. It’s not Nate, unless Nate forgot his spare key, so he wonders if it’s carolers, or Hugh Grant holding a sign telling him to say it was carolers, or those dudes from A Christmas Carol who want him to give alms to the poor. 

It’s none of those things, incidentally. It’s actually Gabe, balancing a big saran-wrapped stewpot in his arms. “Hey, you’re here early.” Tyson says, blinking.

“I figured you could use the help.” Gabe responds, giving him a brusque half-smile as he pushes past Tyson and towards the kitchen. Tyson follows him curiously, and watches him put the stewpot on his stove. Gabe wipes some moisture from the pot off his arms, and Tyson notices he’s wearing a vest style Christmas sweater with two reindeer bucks prancing towards each other. Tyson wonders if that was intentional. “Hey, you’re making ham!” Gabe exclaims cheerfully, peering over the ham like a ravenous Swedish fox. 

“Sure, if I can get it in the oven.” Tyson says flippantly, and Gabe rolls up his sleeves, obviously intent on doing it himself. Tyson rolls his eyes, about to object, but Gabe’s biceps strain against the fabric of his sweater as he lifts up the ham pan, and Tyson’s already easily distracted enough. He shakes his head. “You really didn’t trust me to get this all done myself? You had to be my knight in an ugly sweater?” He asks, vaguely annoyed, and Gabe shrugs infuriatingly. 

“Of course I trust you.” Gabe says gently, and there’s something to his voice that’s far enough away from captainly that Tyson lets it slide. “I just figured I’d offer myself, if you’d have me.” Tyson looks at him. He looks sincere enough, in that beautiful people are always usually a little untrustworthy looking in general, but Tyson knows him well enough to know when he’s got an angle. Gabe’s probably still got an angle here too, but it feels benign. 

“What’d you bring anyway?” Tyson asks, shaking his head. Gabe brightens and moves to take the saran wrap off the pot, lifting the lid and immediately releasing a deeply familiar, heady, buttery smell. Tyson moves in spite of himself, sidles up next to Gabriel to peer over the pot, and sure enough, there’s a thick, still cooling potato soup. 

“I got your dad’s number from Nate.” Gabe confesses, a warm presence over Tyson’s shoulder.

Tyson takes in the smell of it greedily, suddenly remembering Christmases back home, running around with his sister and pretending all his presents weren’t obviously shaped like hockey equipment. “This is a family recipe.” Tyson says, voice faraway. “How’d you charm him into giving it to you?” 

Gabe chuckles, his shoulder bumping amiably against Tyson’s. “I have my ways and wiles.” Gabe tells him, smiling at Tyson nervously. “They’re missing you this year.” He says quietly, and Tyson thinks about Gabe’s family all the way in Sweden, and how he has to buy all his presents weeks in advance so they’ll get there in time. He turns to look at Gabe, eyes bright, and Gabe is looking back. 

“Can I have some?” Tyson asks instead of vocalizing any of the other thoughts in his head, like asking why Gabe would go to all this trouble, or just leaning up and kissing him. “Feed me my family soup, Gabriel.” Tyson demands obnoxiously instead, although it somehow makes Gabe smile. 

“You can’t feed yourself?” Gabe asks, one already invisible eyebrow climbing up towards his hairline. 

“I’m an invalid.” Tyson says simply, gesturing to his hand, and Gabe shakes his head. 

“Fine.” He says. “But I’m not feeding you, you big baby.” Tyson sticks his tongue out at him, and Gabe turns away so quickly, Tyson might almost think he was blushing. 

//

Despite his protests, Gabe does end up doing a lot of the stuff that needs manual dexterity and strength and leaves Tyson to perfect his Christmas bops playlist. (”All I Want for Christmas is You” opens, headlines, and ends the playlist, obviously, but he needs some stuff to pad out the middle.) Nate shows up with a cooler full of alcohol while Tyson is looking up if ABBA did any Christmas songs and wisely reminds him he needs to set up the karaoke or EJ will sulk for the first twenty minutes of the party saying things like “Hey at least there’s no karaoke,” or “Thank God no one is making us sing,” until karaoke is available and then not sing until he’s five drinks in when he monopolizes it for the rest of the night, and no one wants a repeat of the Halloween party, so that becomes top priority. Nate makes a weird face when he realizes Gabe is already there, basting Tyson’s ham, but it’s not so different from the normal weirdness of his face, and he doesn’t say anything about it, so Tyson doesn’t pursue. 

Mikko makes his appearance first with Teri in tow and a bin full of Christmas themed hats and big sunglasses. It’s some kind of photobooth, Nail explains, ripping off the idea from the Blues’ Christmas party with a cheerful efficiency that only Nail Yakupov could muster, and he proceeds to put Mikko in a big orange cowboy hat and drag him off to the corner to make him set it up.

Comes, Soda, and their wives all show up in tandem with a fancy cheese plate and some wine, which immediately classes this joint the fuck up, and then EJ bursts in in a Santa hat and demands to know where the karaoke machine is, which immediately brings the classiness back down to normal, so that settles. 

Sam arrives with his very real and not fake fiancee, and they’re holding hands walking up the driveway. It’s a very sweet reminder of Tyson’s past failures, and he makes a note to send them out to the patio later tonight for some mistletoe entrapment. By makes a note, Tyson actually just tells Nate to remind him, and Nate says he won’t, which is usually how it works. 

Tyson’s in the middle of watching EJ croon through a rendition of “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy,” which isn’t even about Christmas, and he’s about to say something when the rookies arrive. He can hear them bickering on the doorstep about whether they should ring the doorbell or not before they come in, and Kerf is definitely about to knock when the opens the door, startling all three of them. JT and Josty are wearing great ugly Christmas sweaters that vaguely match, although Josty’s in general is louder and might even actually make noise, and JT is holding what looks like some kind of potato dish, and Kerf is a nice, tight white sw—

“Hey, hey what the fuck?” Tyson asks, making Kerf’s eyes bug out like Crazy Frog. “No way you’re coming into my house looking like you’re going to some hoity-toity corporate soiree.” 

“I mean technically it’s kind of—” Kerfy starts and Tyson holds out a hand to shut him up. 

“This is an ugly sweater household and you will wear an ugly sweater. Tyson Tip #5.” Tyson says as authoritatively as he can muster, looking at all the rookies up and down. JT looks a bit peaky, but that’s kind of normal, and Josty is nudging him, quietly asking if Tyson tips are supposed to be a thing. “You dress for the job you want.” Tyson finishes with a flourish as he proceeds to pull his rockin’ gingerbread man sweater over his own head with his good hand and throws it at Kerfy. 

Kerfy is staring at the sweater in his hands helplessly, and Josty is definitely staring at Tyson’s nipples like he doesn’t see them every other day of his life in the locker room. JT, being the best rookie, successfully manages to elbow Kerf into chucking off his own sweater and putting Tyson’s on, which is satisfying enough for Tyson to nod his head. 

The air is colder against his bare skin than the warmth of validation, and it’s bracing enough for Tyson to realize what he’s doing.

He swivels on his heel and heads towards his room, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the younger boy’s significant others, who aren’t used to this kind of thing, and EJ. “Oh, it’s that kind of party!” Tyson hears EJ say from behind him, and another of Nate’s indignant squawks as he assures him that no, it’s not that kind of party. 

“I’ve gotta go change into more appropriate Christmas attire,” Tyson announces to the interest of approximately no one except Claudia, who is staring at his shoulders and poking at Sam, who has found some kind of colorful hat from Teri’s stash, and Gabe, who is looking at him with some measure of disappointment and fondness that Tyson has proudly claimed as Gabe’s own look for him. “Because some rookies don’t know how to properly dress for important events.” Tyson can’t exactly see Kerf, but he can somehow hear his embarrassment. He does spare a glance towards Josty and JT. “Don’t let the young’n’s get into the egg nog,” Tyson tells JT wisely, and JT nods. Josty looks a little indignant, given that Sam is clearly three sheets into one of those Ikea carafes of egg nog already, and sitting in his fiancee’s lap mumbling in French, but Tyson ignores him, for love. “I’ve got some wine coolers in the ice bucket out back, take him out there if he gets thirsty.” JT looks a little confused, but Tyson has faith in his matchmaking abilities as he marches upstairs to find another Christmas appropriate outfit. 

// 

Putting on a Christmas onesie one-handed is a lot harder than Tyson thought it would be. First of all, there were buttons. Tyson didn’t remember there being buttons when he’d made this purchase with Gabe—but then again, he didn’t realize buttons would be a problem until he was halfway tangled in a festive deathtrap on his bed. 

“Hey Siri!” Tyson calls out to his phone, which stubbornly refused to do anything from where it was hidden under the pile of his jeans. “Siri call—Siri call Nate!” There’s a beep, and a muffled voice that informs him that Siri couldn’t find anyone under that name. Tyson groans. “Siri call Nate Do—” 

Before he can finish, there’s a knock on the door, and it opens, to Tyson’s immense relief. “Nate, you absolute buddy, you’ve finally developed our psychic bon—oh hey Gabe.” Tyson blinks, and it’s indeed his captain standing there, staring at Tyson’s half-dressed mess of limbs and skin and onesie. 

For his part, Gabe looks like he’s trying very hard not to laugh until he does. “You’d been gone a while.” Gabe says, trying to stifle his mocking Swedish chortles. “I thought you might need some help.” 

Tyson glares at him, fully aware that he’s probably turning as red as his onesie. “Nope, perfectly fine, send Nate in.” Tyson says icily, and Gabe just shakes his head and closes the door behind him. 

“Mack convinced EJ to let him do the rap part of Waterfalls, so he might be a while.” Tyson groans again. TLC is like, Nate’s kryptonite. Gabe holds his huge hands out in a symbol of peaceful intent. “C’mon, you’re invalid. Let me help you.” 

Tyson scowls and sighs dramatically. “Fine.” He says with a shrug, shifting a little on the bed. “Help me get my buttons. Just don’t be weird about it.”

“I’ve never been weird in my life.” Gabe lies, and suddenly he’s looming over Tyson, all crowding shoulders and restless hands. “Top to bottom, or bottom to top?” Tyson rolls his eyes. 

“Top to bottom, obviously.” Like, there was any other way. Gabe probably had some weird Swedish way to do it, like his thing about eating candy on weekdays. Tyson is about to complain about Gabe being weird and Swedish at him when Gabe leans over, takes the button over his collarbone, and does it with a deft, practiced hand.

Tyson freezes and his muscles tense under the ghost of Gabe’s touch. “Relax.” Gabe mutters, licking his lips as he roves his hands over to the next button. Gabe’s gaze, bright and heavy, follows the movement of his hands, tracing them as carefully as he does the puck on the ice. He takes his time with each button, as if he’s cataloguing every sliver of skin that’s disappearing behind the gaudy red fabric. 

As Gabe moves lower, he wraps a hand companionably around Tyson’s hip to steady himself, his touch a warm, comforting pressure against him. Gabe’s face gets closer and closer as he goes down too, so much so that Tyson can feel the slow cadence of his breath. Tyson finds himself clinging to his sheets as Gabe gets closer to his navel and lower, nears that last button. Tyson could stop him, should stop him, should do this last one himself, but Gabe looks up at him, eyelashes dark against the lightness of his eyes cradled between Tyson’s legs and—

There’s a loud smattering of laughter from downstairs and they can clearly hear Teri’s booming voice “It mistletoe, you have to kiss!!!” And suddenly Tyson is wrenching himself up shrugging Gabe off him and his clearly indignant “Tys” with the speed of a man on a mission. He races down the stairs only as minimally careful with his hand as he can be, Gabe trailing behind, lumbering and confused. 

Tyson makes his way around the corner to the small crowd in front of the sliding glass door, just in time to see Josty…and Kerf, looking mortified. “Oh, son of a bitch.” Tyson mutters under his breath. 

“Tell me about it.” JT says glumly from his side. Tyson glares at him. 

“You were supposed to go with him!” Tyson hisses at Comph in a low whisper and JT groans. 

“I thought you wanted me to get him a wine cooler I—you took off your shirt!” JT says accusingly, waving around what is indeed a wine cooler.

Teri, Mikko, Sam, and Sam’s fiancee, Claudia, have formed a Greek chorus over by Tyson’s refrigerator. Sam has found some kind of jester’s hat and some goggles, Claudia is wearing a feather boa, and Teri is poking Mikko with a big bejeweled plastic hand that says ‘Sexy,’ and they’re all chanting at the rookies to kiss. 

Kerf is sputtering, already subjected to Tyson taking off his shirt at him, and Josty sighs, grabs him by the collar of his sweater, and pulls him up into a breathless kiss. It lasts for longer than JT is clearly comfortable with as Kerf relaxes against Josty, and Josty clearly drags his teeth over Kerf’s bottom lip as he pulls away, triumphant smile lazy on his face. Claudia wolf-whistles, and Mikko makes some kind of whooping noise. 

“Oh buddy, it’s just a mistletoe.” Tyson says, nudging JT’s shoulder. “It’s not real.”

JT looks away, giving him just a distant “Yeah,” in response. He doesn’t seem to have much time to dwell on it, since Josty then proceeds to steal the boa from Claudia and wraps it around JT’s shoulders, dragging him in the direction of the photobooth. 

“C’mon, Comphy, let’s get pretty.” Josty says, clearly ebullient off a good kiss. He winks at Tyson. “Looking good, TBear.” Josty says, pulling a helpless looking JT along as they go to recollect their stunned third. 

Gabe comes up from behind him, flushed and confused. 

“Rookies are so weird, man.” Tyson says simply, shaking his head. “No matter how hard I try, I don’t get ‘em.” 

Gabe looks at him, eyes narrowed. “I get the feeling.” He says, running a hand through his hair.

“Merry Christmas, Landesnerd.” Tyson tell him, sincerely. 

Gabe looks at him again, for a second, and then gives him a bit of an exasperated smile. “Merry Christmas, Four.” Tyson pats him on the shoulder. 

“Let’s go get some ham.” He offers, and Gabe smiles brighter at that. 

//

They stumble a little out the gate, but once they get settled into the new year, the Avs won’t stop winning. They win, and win, and win again, the Pepsi Center running on a feedback loop of nervous adrenaline as they watch Nate score goal after goal, Bernie make save after save. They run teams who are supposed to be their betters out of Denver on their heels, and Tyson gets to watch all of it and know: this is what this team is meant to be.

And Tyson gets to watch all of it sitting in the press box. 

Not that he’s not happy for them. To the contrary, Tyson is ecstatic for them. If he has to be their cheerleader, then damn if he won’t be the best one. Or as good as a one-handed defenseman in an ill-fitting suit can be a cheerleader, especially when the Avs already have their best cheerleader sitting in the press box every night, dancing in his seat—Teri handles being scratched better than anyone Tyson knows, and it’s all Tyson can do to join in on his one and half man waves every time Mikko scores. 

Normally, Nate would keep Tyson company after his surgery. And he does the best he can, texting him dog memes and vine compilations and making Dairy Queen runs with him, but Nate’s carrying this team on his shoulders right now, and that means he’s always conked out by 10 PM and he’s got to forgo his usual Blizzard combo for the sake of his diet plan. Tyson’s not the kind of guy to be distracting like that, so if he has to spend an off-day slumped on his couch crying over episodes of Queer Eye and eating his Blizzards alone for a while to stop himself from googling real estate in Seattle, he’ll do that, because he’s a good teammate and a better friend, even if he’s benching himself from both for a while. 

He’s wiping his eyes after bawling about AJ’s journey for the third time when his phone starts buzzing angrily. “Go for TBeauty,” Tyson says with an exaggerated sniffle. 

“Hey it’s J—are you crying? Dude.” Comph’s voice comes in, slightly muffled. Tyson rolls his eyes, settling back down into the couch. 

“Sometimes you just need to cry it out, bro.” He says sagely. “What’d you want, Jimothy? Did you need another tip?”

Comph sighs, and Tyson picks up on some other voices in the background, probably Rookie 1 and 2 in this trifecta. “No, I just—we were just wondering if you were doing anything today?”

“I’m doing many things.” Tyson lies. “I’m a busy man.” JT makes a noise that makes it sound like doesn’t believe him, and Tyson is offended on the principle of the thing. 

“Well, either way, we wanted to know if you wanted to join our party?” 

Tyson raises an eyebrow. “You’re having a party?” He didn’t know they were party equipped—Kerf couldn’t even respect dress codes, and he wasn’t sure they had a dining room table outside of that ping pong table.

“No, uh, we have a party.” Comph clarifies, even more confusingly “Like for a campaign.”

“What, like Dungeons and Dragons?” Tyson asks. 

There’s an audible snort in the background of the call. 

//  
Somehow, then, Tyson finds himself sitting at a ping pong table with a pre-rolled character sheet, sitting next to Sam as he inhales a bowl full of pretzel twists that were supposed to be for everybody. Josty and Comph are on the other side, Josty drumming a beat into the table impatiently while Comph blatantly stares at him like he’s the only person in the world, which apparently happens enough that nobody says anything about it. Apparently, for Kerf, classical DnD is a bit played out, so they’re playing something called Dungeon World that Tyson powered through the pdf for instead of watching reruns of the Great British Bake Off. 

“Chair stays on the ground, Jost.” Kerfy warns. 

“Eat my ass, buddy.” Josty shoots back cheerfully, but he stays upright. Comph smiles dopily. 

“So,” Kerf starts, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “The giant spiders have Tiffany and her dogs wrapped up in their web, and Gregarious, you’re pinned by the dryden.” He nods at Sam and Comph respectively.

“Heck yeah he is.” Josty says, punching Comph in shoulder, who grumbles a little and turns his face away from Josty to hide his blush. 

Kerf rolls his eyes. “You’ve between Gregarious and the trees, but Tiffany is out of your range. Buck, what do you do?” 

Josty smiles wolfishly, leaning over the table. “I throw a knife at the spider pinning Greg in his big, dumb eyes.” He plucks a couple of pretzel twists out of a scandalized Sam’s bowl, popping one in his mouth and throwing the other at Comph. 

Kerf waves for Josty to roll the dice. 

“Oh, yikes.” Tyson says, and Josty groans at the sight of that big shiny three. Sam laughs, mouth full, and Comph lays a hand comfortingly over Josty’s shoulder. 

“You miss the spider.” Kerf says. 

“No shit.” Josty responds. Kerf glares at him. 

“You miss the spider and hit the tree in front of you instead, and it bounces off and hits you in the fucking head. You gain the Level One Harm: Disoriented, jackass.” Josty groans again. 

Kerf claps his hands and turns to Tyson. “Bunter Cox. First move, what do you wanna do?” 

Tyson blinks. “Oh, worm, okay.” He stares at his character sheet, furrowing his brow. Kerf had applied some helpful highlighting on his special Druid moves. He’s a real helpful dude. “I use shapeshifting—” 

“Don’t tell me what move you’re using,” Kerfy cuts in. “If you’re gonna do it, do it.” 

Tyson looks at him. “Okay, fuck you, I turn into a bear and wreck their shop.” 

“Roll + Wis for me.” 

He turns into a bear and wrecks their shop. 

// 

After they’re done and the spiders are dead, he hangs out in the kitchen with Comph for a bit while Comph does dishes and he sets up his Lyft. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to just stay the night?” Comph asks. “You can stay in Biggy’s—you can stay in the spare room.” He looks a little awkward when he says Biggy’s name, more awkward than he normally looks. 

“Is it not his room anymore?” Tyson asks, looking up from his phone. He presses his back against the counter to look at Comph, who turns back towards the dishes and shrugs. 

“We thought they might call him up, when you got injured.” Comph says honestly. “He doesn’t think he’s coming back.” He hunches in his shoulders a little, and he looks smaller than he is. Tyson never forgets he’s a rookie, but it’s times like this when it really hits him.

“And what do you think?” Tyson asks softly.

Comph shrugs again, and stops the water. He grips the edge of the sink tightly. “It’s not fair.” He says, quietly. “He worked so hard. They told him they wanted him to stay and—” Comph shakes his head once more. “It’s not fair.” 

“No, it’s not fair.” Tyson says, as sincere as he can, extending a hand out to press over Comph’s shoulder. “That’s hockey, I guess. You take what you can, for as long as you can. And love it while you have it.” 

Comph gives him a weak, watery smile. “Maybe you are pretty wise.” 

“Damn straight.” Tyson says cheekily. “Well, not so straight.” 

Comph laughs. “Me neither.” Tyson squeezes his shoulder supportively, and Comph finally relaxes. 

“You know,” Tyson muses, chuckling a little. “Kerf actually had a pretty good Tyson Tip.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Tyson smiles at him. “If you’re gonna do it, then do it.” He says, brushing Comph’s shoulder with his knuckles. 

Comph glances at Tyson, and then across the house towards Josty’s room, and then back at Tyson. His shoulders relax and he leans against the sink. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He says.

// 

The weird thing is, the game helps, for a while. Tyson doesn’t have to think about his hand and the rookies don’t have to think about their individual point droughts. He can lose himself in playing a druid and Kerf’s meticulously crafted story and currency systems, healing Josty’s character when he tries to do dumb stunts, and just enjoying himself while his team racks up wins until bye week. 

Nate’s gone to go look at koalas to destress for five seconds before flying back and restress, so Tyson’s just dicking around on Insta. Gabe’s got a picture up of him and Zoey in a field looking very soft and majestic, and Tyson likes it absentmindedly when he gets a DM. He’s fully prepared to fight off accusations from Landeskog about actually liking him when he’s really just trying to steal his dog when Tyson realizes it’s actually from EJ’s weird Finsta. 

He opens it. 

bitch. 

Tyson looks at it for a second, shakes his head, and blocks him. Almost immediately, his phone buzzes. 

EJ Johnson: Wait Unblock me i Have something to Tell you 

Tyson sighs, and reluctantly unblocks him. 

The message says: check ur twitter 

Tyson checks his Twitter, which he hasn’t actually opened in a few days, and sure enough, there’s a DM waiting for him from EJ. 

It says, again: bitch. 

Tyson gets ready to block him when another message comes in.

come to my House im barbecquing.

Tyson responds: sign me up 4 a horseburger, and EJ sends him a very satisfying string of angry emojis. 

//

Gabe answers the door after the third time Tyson rings the doorbell, big and broad in a tight sweater and a Broncos cap that actually manages to fit his huge head. He bounds up to the door, beaming at Tyson like a big muscled golden retriever and Tyson bumps his shoulder. 

“And here I thought we were all adults now.” Tyson says cheekily. 

“I’ll show you how adult I am—” Gabe starts, before Tyson snatches the hat off his head and squeezes past him into EJ’s living room. 

“This is mine now!” Tyson says, hip checking Gabe into door as he turns towards the kitchen, where EJ is turning over some meat on a stovetop grill, wearing a kind of sky blue apron with an Andy Warhol looking horse looking up at Tyson with big, meaningless eyes. 

“TBear!” EJ yells as he sees him, waving a pair of tongs around like a maniac. “How the hell are you, you mutant?!”

Tyson gives him half of a one-handed secret handshake and EJ pulls him into a one-handed hug. “Hey, I thought we were barbecuing?” Tyson asks, and EJ snorts. 

“It’s too fucking cold,” EJ says cheerfully, aggressively flipping over a sausage. “We can go out on the patio later and warm ourselves with drink like the Russians.” 

Gabe wanders in then, bigly, and wraps an arm around Tyson’s shoulder. “Hi.” He says, leaning over Tyson’s neck, and it seems like he’s gotten a head start on warming himself with drink. “You stole my hat.” 

“I did not steal your hat.” Tyson says, settling up against his chest companionably. “It’s too giant to be out there in the world. Someone’s going to try and slay you for it.” 

“I am a giant,” Gabe says, resting his chin on Tyson’s shoulder. “Ho Ho Ho.” 

“That’s Santa Claus, idiot.” 

“You don’t know how big Santa is,” Gabe says conspiratorially. “He could be huge, and we just don’t know because he’s magic.” 

“You know what’s huge—” Tyson starts, before EJ stops him. 

“Okay, you two can get your sexual tension out of my kitchen right now.” EJ growls, snapping his tongs threateningly. “I don’t need your desperation soaking into my ribeye.” 

“We’re not—” Tyson tries to explain, but EJ just snaps the tongs at him again like a crab. 

“Spare me your lies and go fuck somewhere out of my sight!” 

EJ pushes them out of the kitchen and back into the living room. Tyson sinks into EJ’s couch in a huff, while Gabe wanders over to mess with the sound system’s bluetooth settings or something. He’s about to complain about how rude EJ is, like, as a person, when Gabe calls out, offhandedly. 

“So, are we gonna fuck on his couch, or what?” He says. Tyson sputters. 

“Wow,” Tyson says scornfully to distract the fact that he’s almost definitely turned beet red. “Not even a little romance? Put in a little effort, Landesnerd. At least give me a lap dance first, bud.” He says, and regrets it immediately. 

Gabe looks up at him from where he’s choosing a song on his phone. “You want a lap dance?” He echoes, voice husky and a little more Swedish than usual. He taps something on his phone and the synthesizer comes in first through EJ’s speakers.

“Oh my god,” Tyson squeaks, digging his fingers into the couch cushions. “Really, Gabe? You’re gonna give me a lap dance to ABBA?” 

“Shut the fuck up and enjoy it, Four.” Gabe literally growls, and then—okay now he’s definitely putting his hands on his hips and swiveling.

Tyson’s eyes bug out, and he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry at the way Gabe is just kind of alternating hip arches and just sort of running around in a circle and really showing off how good his ass looks in those jeans. The first chorus hits and Gabe smiles at Tyson, impishly, and winks, rucking his sweater up over his abs and making them fucking ripple. Tyson chokes, and he’s got a death grip on the couch cushions. 

Gabe lets his sweater flutter back down, and is moving closer to him with his weird spin circles that should really not be so hot, and suddenly he smacks his arms down to bracket Tyson’s thighs, pushing off on one do an athletic swivel that has Gabe’s ass brushing alarmingly close to Tyson’s increasingly hard dick. Tyson is bright red now, if he wasn’t before, his chest seizing up at every hint of movement. Gabe hasn’t touched him at all yet, and he’s about ready to fall apart. 

Gabe pulls himself up onto the couch, and suddenly his thighs are wrapped around Tyson’s hips. One hand snakes under Tyson’s shirt, ghosting up and down his stomach at the same time as the other rubs concentric circles over his shoulders. Tyson looks up at him in awe, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, and he realizes Gabe is singing along. 

“Don’t go wastin’ your emotion,” Gabe sings along lowly, his voice just as off-key as he usually is, arching his stomach to trap his hand between them, the other one trying to play with Tyson’s hair. With the hat in the way, Gabe growls, plucking it from Tyson’s head and putting it back on his own head, backwards, letting his hand mix in greedily with Tyson’s curls. “Lay all your love on me.” Gabe recites, and he presses his hips down, and Tyson groans at the feeling of what is definitely Gabe’s annoyingly huge dick pressing up against his thigh. 

Gabe presses his huge forehead against Tyson’s, singing softly, and if one of them were to lean in just a little bit closer, they could be kissing. Tyson groans, huskily, ready to tilt his chin up and slot his lips against Gabe’s when—

There’s a loud banging against the wall. “Put your pants on, hooligans!” EJ calls out from the kitchen. “Food’s ready!”

Tyson shoves Gabe off his lap and to the side, both of them heaving. Gabe’s eyes are dark, and he looks a little like he does after a particularly egregious scrum. “Better get out there before EJ comes in and gives us a lap dance to ‘Beer for my Horses.’” Tyson jokes, his chuckle forced as he pushes himself off the couch. 

Gabe softens and shakes his head, suddenly throwing the hat back at Tyson, who scrambles to catch it. “It looks better on you.” He says, smoothing down his sweater as he gets up himself. 

Tyson has no idea what happened, but he should know better than anyone how far Gabe Landeskog can take a joke.

//

Tyson finally gets back on the ice and they start losing again, and then Nate gets injured, for good measure. So all things, considered, kind of a shitty homecoming, and Tyson really needs to blow off some steam killing a spider queen. 

When he gets to rookie house this time, tupperware of maple cookies in tow, the first thing he notices is Josty sitting in Comph’s lap. 

“Oh my god.” Tyson says, taking in the sight of Josty strewn haphazardly over the older rookie, nuzzling his curls into his chest. JT leans over his shoulder to get at his character sheet, and Josty nips at Comph’s neck, as if delightedly destroying any attempt at anyone to rationalize this. 

“Cookies!” Sam pipes up from the other side of the ping-pong table, breaking Tyson out of his stupor. “Barries, give me the cookies, please.” The younger d-man demands politely, holding out his hand. 

Tyson shakes his head and slouches into his designated seat, pushing the container across to Sam, who rips into it greedily. JT gives him a wave, awkward from around Josty, who barely nods to acknowledge him from where he’s nuzzling his new boyfriend’s chest like a cat.

“Hey Kerf,” Tyson greets their DM. Kerf is flipping through his notes and highlighting things at the head of the table with a little extra aplomb. “How you holding up?” he asks, nodding towards the lovebirds. 

Kerf gives him a leveled look. “Stupendous! Thanks for asking.” Kerf snaps his binder shut, and grins wolfishly around the table. “All right, you spent all time fucking around with mushroom people, and now the spider queen is eating the mayor, who wants to go first?” 

//

Later, he and Comph are back in the kitchen, sitting on the linoleum floor, and finishing off Tyson’s cookies. 

“So,” Tyson says, carefully. “You and Josty.”

JT shrugs, giving Tyson a cryptic smile. “If you’re gonna do it, then do it, right?” He slides a cookie into his mouth smugly. 

Tyson snorts and raps his knuckles against JT’s shoulder. “You really went for it, huh?” 

“Learned from the best.” 

Tyson beams. “Hell yeah ya did, bud!” He exclaims, wrapping an arm around Comph’s shoulder to pat him on the back.

“Hey,” JT starts, midway through eating another cookie. Tyson knocks his side a bit for being rude, and he swallows. “You should invite Gabe to a session.”

Tyson thinks about this. Dungeon World did seem to fit their captain’s particular brand of Swedish drama. “Why can’t you do it yourself?” Tyson asks, shoveling another cookie into his mouth himself. 

“Oh c’mon,” JT says, with a cryptic laugh. “Now that Tys--Josty and I are together, we all figured the couple thing wouldn’t be so weird if you brought Gabe along. Do you think he’d be willing to play a wizard?” 

Tyson cocks his head, making crumbs spilling out onto his lap from his chin. Gabe would, in fact, rock the shit out of playing a wizard, but--“Couple thing?” He repeats, his mouth still full. “We’re not a couple.” 

Comph looks weirdly amused. “Oh, is it a secret? We all figured out you’ve been together for a while. Well, Kerf figured out, but Tys and I had our suspicions.” Comph furrows his brow, and Tyson feels like he’s about to vibrate out of his whole skin or Ashton Kutcher is going to crawl out from under the ping-pong table and tell him he’s been Punk’d, whatever came first. “We’ve been talking about him this whole time, you can’t try to pull this trick—” 

“Compher.” Tyson stops him, in as serious a tone as he can muster. “Gabriel and I aren’t together. We’ve never been together.” Tyson grits his teeth, runs his hand over the back of his neck in circles. “He jokes, but he’d never actually want to be with me, okay?” 

There’s a weird, awkward pause where Comph is looking at him with wide, worried eyes, like he’s about to say something pityingly affirming, when one of the door to the bathroom crashes open. “Joseph Taylor!” Josty calls out, and JT scrambles up at the sound of his voice. “Come to bed! We smashing or not?” Comph has turned bright red, off-color with his hair, and sighs at Tyson. 

“You might want to tell Gabe that.” Is all he says as he brushes the crumbs off his lap and wanders off towards his room, presumably to smash or whatever it is rookies called it these days. 

He leaves Tyson alone with the last of his cookies. Tyson eats it petulantly before shrugging himself up. 

Him and Gabe? The rookies really got some weird ideas in their heads, sometimes. 

//

Between watching the rookies climb all over each other during practices like no was there to see them, let alone document cute stories about them on Twitter, Gabe fighting Schenner shirtless five seconds into a game just for them to get their asses handed to them, and having Nate sulk around his house pretending he didn’t know what the standings were and avoiding texts from bratty French Canadians about to come into town, but still screenshotting them to Tyson at every opportunity, Tyson wasn’t really looking forward to Valentine’s Day. He was, however, looking forward to winning the Valentine’s card competition this year. 

Tyson still cringed about how much of an idiot he was the first time they’d done this, making an ass of himself in some hotel lobby in New Jersey while Gabe turned those big blue eyes on and fluttered his eyelashes at him and told him how special he was, and Tyson was so swept up in it he gave Gabe his room number, like the lonely bisexual idiot he was. They’d all laughed it off, Gabe especially, and Tyson was determined not to let Gabriel Landeskog get the better of him this time. 

On their way up the tarmac to the flight to Raleigh, Tyson actually corners Lauren for once. “Hey, listen to this,” He starts, pulling his notes out of his suit pocket. “’Landy, I want you in my bed, it doesn’t matter the size of your head!’” Tyson reads, grinning at Lauren, who just kind of looks at him. “I’m gonna wipe the floor with him this year, for sure.” 

“Oh, Tys,” Lauren says, giving him her best “we both know that you fucked up today and people on Twitter aren’t going to shut up about trading you to the Leafs for Willy Nylander for a while and I’m really sorry about that” smile. “Didn’t you hear, we got Mikko and Teri into it, so your card’s actually supposed to go to Mikko this year.” 

Tyson’s jaw drops. “Lauren.” He says. “Lauren.” He says again. “Lauren “LG” Gardner what did I ever do to you to hurt me like this?” Tyson groans dramatically, and Lauren rolls her eyes. 

“Mikko has a big head too, dude.” She reminds him, punching him affectionately on the shoulder. “Just give him that old TBeauty charm.” She says, brushing past him to get on her way. 

“I’ll never forget this betrayal, Lauren!” Tyson calls out from behind her. 

“Tough cookies, Tyson!” She calls back, and then all Tyson can hear is the clacking of her heels on the tile as she walks away. 

//

“You really went all out this year, huh?” Gabe asks, still eating the gross cheap chocolate man he definitely wasn’t supposed to be eating. Lauren and the camera crew had cleared out to do editing and set up for the other Valentine’s Day segments they wanted to do, and Mikko had wandered off to go find Nail and hopefully give him a piece of his mind for not showing up and embarrassing himself like the rest of them. 

Not that Tyson really embarrassed himself this time with that two-page poetical masterwork. But everybody else did, and that was pretty satisfying. Or, it should have been, if Gabe had bothered to even compete. 

“Of course I was gonna bring it after last time.” Tyson shakes his head, rolling his eyes at Gabe. “I can’t believe you phoned it in like that.”

Gabe swallows down some more of the chocolate man’s torso, leaving a streak on his bottom lip. “It was just a dumb game, and I don’t really know Yak that well.” 

“What,” Tyson starts, more scornfully than he really means, and Gabe startles a little, taken aback at the harshness of his tone. “You can only play seriously when you’re messing with my feelings?”

That’s a lot more than Tyson wanted to say right now, and any high ground he’d taken by winning this game was sloughing off under his feet. Gabe licks his lips and reaches out, brushes against Tyson’s hand with his. 

“Tyson,” He says, carefully. “I’m not trying to mess with you or play with you or anything, I—” 

Tyson cuts him off by snatching his wrist away, pushing himself off of the couch. “Tyson Tip #6. If you’re gonna do it, then do it, asshole.” 

He leaves Gabe alone in a hotel lobby, confused and covered in chocolate. 

// 

They get a shutout against the Habs on Valentine’s Day, and so many of the boys have wives, or girlfriends, or each other to go home with, that Tyson decides that any attempt at having drinks would just be the sad, single guys commiserating about how sad and single they were. So, he picks up a bottle of cinnamon twist vodka and decides to be sad and single at home by himself. 

He’s settling in with another episode of Queer Eye, splayed out on the couch in his old Kelowna sweats, when there’s a knock at the door. There’s some kind of muffled sound outside his door like, music maybe? Nate probably had his hands full and his headphones on full blast. Maybe he’d ran all the way here. That felt like a Nate thing to do. 

“I swear, Dogg, if you’re coming to hide out from Drouin here on Valentine’s Day—” Tyson stops as he approaches his door and instead of Nate’s usual rap, there’s a very familiar series of piano melodies and piercing violin that could only be one person. 

Tyson yanks the door open. “Celine?” He exclaims, and Gabe blinks. Gabriel Landeskog is standing on his porch, still in his jersey, holding up his cellphone like a boombox while it plays the greatest song of all time. “Gabe, what the fuck are you doing here?” 

“Dance with me?” Gabe says, in lieu of an answer. His eyes are wild blue, shining determined against the set of his jaw, looking ready to sweep Tyson off his feet, as soon as he got permission. 

“What do you—why are you still wearing…” Tyson trails off, taking in the sight of the jersey Gabe is wearing, very much without a C on the chest, with a 4 on the arm where a 92 should be. “Why are you wearing my sweater?” Tyson asks, his voice squeaky and unsure. 

“Dress for the job you want.” Gabe says, dragging his perfect teeth over the last syllable to settle his gaze to meet Tyson’s. 

Tyson lets him in. 

Gabe throws his phone on the front table, close enough that they can still hear the music, and suddenly one of his huge hands was resting on Tyson’s hip, the other to wrap around his wrist, and they’re slow-dancing in Tyson’s front hallway. 

They’re slow-dancing in Tyson’s front hallway, Tyson still in his socks, Gabe in Tyson’s jersey, to It’s All Coming Back to Me Now. 

Tyson can feel Gabe’s pulse point against his, swaying with Gabe’s steps. “What’s happening, Gabe? Why are you doing this?” He murmurs, uncertain, so close to Gabe he can feel his breath on his cheek, and it’s so weird that this has got his heart racing more than the jokey lap dance Gabe had given him like two weeks ago. 

“Tysons love dancing.” Gabe recites, fluttering his fingertips over Tyson’s side. “I’m trying to do everything Tysons love. I’m trying to do everything you love.” 

“Wha—” Tyson starts, but Gabe stops him, leaning in over him to ghost his lips over Tyson’s ear and side of his jaw. 

“I’ve tried and I’ve tried, for years, and you’re always laughing it off, taking it as a joke. You’re infuriating, do you know that? A total moron, sometimes.” Gabe almost growls over his ear, and Tyson heats up in his grasp, ready to protest. “I have been too. Too much of a moron to just tell you that I love you. You told me to do it? I’m doing it.” Gabe’s pressed their foreheads together now, rubbing his thumb against Tyson’s wrist, and they’ve stopped now, or the room’s stopped, or everything’s stopped.

Tyson groans against him, pressing tight against him. “Then do it.” He says. 

And Gabe kisses him. 

And kisses him, and kisses him. Heavy, persistent kisses over Tyson’s jaw and mouth and neck, like he’s finding all his favorite parts of Tyson’s face while at the same time looking for more.

One of Gabe’s hands tangle up in Tyson’s curls, the other still wrapped around his hip, and suddenly he’s pulling Tyson up. Tyson instinctively wraps his legs around Gabe’s waist and his arms around his shoulders, letting Gabe pick him up and push him forwards, until they’re bumping up against his kitchen table. 

“Bedroom.” Tyson hisses, before tracing his mouth over Gabe’s jaw, letting the stubble scrape over his skin. Gabe obliges, grabbing at him to pick him up again. “Cool down, Christian Grey.” Tyson says, poking against Gabe’s broad chest. “You’re not breaking your back carrying me up the stairs in the middle of our playoff push. I can walk.” 

Gabe makes a pained noise. “I could do it.” He says huskily. “No doubt.” 

“No doubt.” Tyson repeats, but he shakes his head, dragging his hand up Gabe’s abs to pull at his collar. “Tell you what. You can pick me up as much as you want as soon as we get up there, yeah?” 

This means as soon as they get up there, of course, that Gabe hoists him up bridal style and kisses him breathless, ripping into his bedroom and throwing Tyson onto his bed unceremoniously. He starts unbuckling his jeans before Tyson stops him. 

“Keep my jersey on, eh?” Tyson says, accent thick. Gabe laughs and shakes his head, but makes no move to pull his sweater off as he slides off his pants, freeing his hard cock, which was almost unfairly proportional. Tyson licks his lips, and hurries to shuck off his shirt and throw it off to the side. 

Before he can work on his sweatpants, Gabe crawls onto the bed, hooking Tyson’s ankles and pulling him towards him. He peels off Tyson’s socks, and pulls down Tyson’s sweatpants slowly like he’s opening a present. Gabe just looks at him for a second, taking him in. “Admiring the view?” Tyson asks, cheekily. 

Gabe responds by kissing him again, first on his mouth, dragging his teeth over his bottom lip to move down over his neck, nip at his collarbone. He latches on to Tyson’s nipple, lapping at and around it while he tweaks the other one with his fingers, running circles over and over until he switches. He moves down Tyson’s abs—nowhere near as cut as Gabe’s more than extant—but every touch is purposeful, reverent. Finally, he reaches Tyson’s dick. 

“Fucking hell,” he says, inbetween licking a long stripe up Tyson’s cock, cradling his balls as he laves his tongue over the head. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to do this?”

“What kept you?” Tyson snipes, and Gabe rolls his eyes and swallows half of his cock down in one go.

Gabe drags his mouth over Tyson’s cock and Tyson lets out a long groan, threading his fingers through Gabe’s soft, luscious hair as Gabe goes down on him with as much maddening expertise as he brings to everything else. Gabe looks up at him, his eyes impossibly blue as he lets Tyson fall from his mouth and smack against his cheek, painting the hollow of his own cheek with Tyson’s precome as he moves curiously down. 

He traces a path down Tyson’s thighs, bracing himself with his hands as he lifts Tyson’s legs up to balance over his shoulders as he finds Tyson’s hole. He meets Tyson’s eye again, makes a longing, bitten off noise, and dives in. 

Gabe eats him out like it’s his job, licking into him with professional aplomb. He alternates between circling Tyson’s hole with his tongue, tracing around it daintily before plunging in hungrily. One of Tyson’s hands scrambles for purchase over his bedsheets as Gabe reams his hole, arching his tongue up and into him while the other runs through Gabe’s hair and over his shoulders, pushing him down and deeper. One of Gabe’s hands—the one not holding up Tyson’s thigh to leverage better access to his ass—finds Tyson’s grasping fingers and squeezes his palm to anchor him steady. 

Gabe’s hand leaves him, and Tyson whines at that, audibly. Tyson can almost feel Gabe smirking from his place between his thighs. The nigh relentless movement of his tongue stops, and draws away, and Tyson whines even louder at that, but then he feels Gabe’s thumb catch at his rim, and Tyson feels the pressure as Gabe begins to press a finger, no two, inside of him.

“Oh, fuck.” Tyson gasps, as Gabe begins to move deeper, and suddenly Gabe is pulling himself up and moving over him to kiss him again, swallowing the sounds Tyson makes as he pushes in, lets Tyson get used to the feeling of his knuckles brushing up against his hole. Gabe arches up into him, searching until he finds Tyson’s prostate. 

Tyson jolts against him when he does, and Gabe pulls him closer, kissing him deeply as he fucks into Tyson with his fingers. Slowly, teasingly, he adds another one, bracing them up against Tyson’s prostate as he fucks him open. His hand finds its way to Tyson’s cock and starts to stroke him in time, long smooth strokes brushing at the head with every slamming of his fingers, expertly pulling at him until Tyson’s groans start to fall apart and he spills his load between them, painting Tyson’s stomach and the burgundy of Gabe’s jersey. 

Gabe leans back over and kisses Tyson again, softer now, running his hand up and down the drying, sticky mess on his stomach. 

“Gabe,” Tyson murmurs against his lips, still half-breathless. “I haven’t even touched you yet. 

Gabe laughs over his jaw. “I told you, this night was about you. I’m doing what you want.” 

Tyson rolls his eyes, smacking Gabe halfheartedly on the shoulder. “Shut up. What I want is to suck your dick, Gabriel.” Tyson snaps, pushing Gabe down onto the bed. He lifts his jersey up to ruck up over Gabe’s pecs, raking his fingers appreciatively over the chiseled marble of his abs. He lays kisses over Gabe’s chest, greedily licking at the abs he’s had to see a thousand times before. 

“I thought you said you wanted to suck my dick,” Gabe jokes, although his voice is thick and heavy. 

“I thought I told you to shut up,” Tyson shoots back, swatting at Gabe’s stomach. He holds his hand there for purchase as he leans down and lays a soft lick over the head of Gabe’s cock. He takes the head into his mouth leisurely, wrapping his hand around the base to steady himself. He takes a deep breath, lifts his eyes to look at Gabe, and winks, before taking as much of Gabe down his throat as he can manage. 

“Jesus, Tyson.” Gabe curses, grasping at Tyson’s curls to gently push him down further. Tyson laps at the underside of Gabe’s cock as he moves, feeling Gabe’s muscles tense underneath him the deeper and deeper he goes. Tyson moves his hand to brace himself, and flicks his tongue, hollowing out his throat for that last push, Gabe letting out a satisfying gasp as Tyson feels the brush of Gabe’s navel against his nose. 

“Fuck, fuck, Tys,” Gabe’s accent sounds more demonstrably Swedish than it has in Tyson’s entire years of knowing him as he rocks into Tyson’s mouth, bucking his hips up as his hands scramble over Tyson’s hair and back. Tyson holds him there for a few seconds before pulling back up, laving his tongue over to rest on the head of Gabe’s cock and take a breath before he plunges back down, sliding down to the base more easily every time. 

Tyson can feel Gabe tighten under his grip, measure the shortness of his breaths, the bitten off way he repeats Tyson’s name, over and over again. He says his name again, like a warning this time, and Tyson pulls off entirely, falling back on his hands. 

“What the hell, Tyson?” Gabe growls, one eyebrow raised, like he’s a referee who just stripped him of a goal for interference. 

Tyson grins at him, lips red and puffy. “I want you to fuck me now, Gabe.” Gabe releases a breath. 

“I have a condom in my jeans.” He responds quickly, and Tyson laughs. 

“You really thought this plan would work out, huh? Pretty cocky, captain.” 

Gabe measures a look at him, already half-wrecked, sticky with his own cum. “I’ll show you cocky.” He says darting down to grab his jeans from where they’d thrown them at the foot of Tyson’s bed, fishing a roll of condoms and a travel bottle of lube from the pocket. 

“Ambitious.” Tyson chirps, as Gabe rips one open and slides it on. He turns towards Tyson, presumably to pin him, and Tyson takes the opportunity to pounce and snatch the lube from Gabe. 

He sits backwards on Gabe’s chest, leaning over his cock to drizzle lube liberally over Gabe’s condom-encased cock and thighs. Tyson’s still pretty loose from Gabe’s earlier enthusiastic ass-eating, but Gabe takes his own opportunity to get back to it, pushing himself up a little to lap Tyson’s hole back open with his tongue. They do this for a few minutes, getting each other ready, before Tyson gets impatient, and pushes himself off of Gabe’s face. 

“We’re doing this, princess.” Tyson mutters, scrambling over to position himself, finally—

“Wait,” Gabe says, voice hoarse. “Turn around? I want to see your face.” 

“You’re such a fucking nerd.” Tyson chirps at him, and Gabe just smiles at him. 

“Yeah, but you’re fucking me.” He shoots back. Tyson rolls his eyes, but he shifts over, holding one of Gabe’s hips in each hand as he finally, finally sinks down onto his cock. And, okay, maybe turning around was worth it just to see Gabe’s face as he gets inside of Tyson. 

Tyson curses, taking a second to adjust to Gabe’s sheer size. “You okay?” Gabe asks, weirdly captainly. “You know you don’t have to—” 

“Shut up, Landesnerd.” Tyson snaps, closes his eyes, and begins to push down, letting inch after inch disappear inside of him until he finally bottoms out. When he opens his eyes, smirking triumphantly, Gabe is staring up at him, eyes wide and adoring. Tyson grabs him by the collar of his jersey to pull him into a kiss. He kisses up Gabe’s jaw to drag his teeth over his ear. “I thought I told you to fuck me, Gabriel.” He whispers. 

Gabe nods, and wraps his arms around Tyson’s back to hold him steady as he pounds into him. Gabe fucks him properly, slamming into him with the same efficiency he brings to grinding out goals, taking him apart with his cock and shaking him back together again.

It’s not long until Tyson’s a vibrating mess of curses and groans, running his hands up and down Gabe’s back as he arches his hips down, desperate to get more and more of Gabe into him, to be filled up by him. Gabe, for his part, is just as talkative, saying his name, telling him how good he is, how tight he is, how long he’s been imagining this. 

Without Tyson noticing, his legs are suddenly wrapped around Gabe’s waist, and Gabe is holding him up around his back as he picks him up again and Gabe is fucking into him while he’s basically mid-air, and now Tyson gets to tell him how stupidly, monstrously strong he is and what a show off he is, and how much he wants all of this. 

Gabe swivels on his knees, and now he’s fucking Tyson with Tyson’s back against the headboard, wracking the frame of the bed with every thrust. His mouth is attached to Tyson’s neck, dragging teeth over his collarbone with a deep, sucking bruise that’ll probably end up being a mark Tyson’s going to get chirped over for weeks, but Gabe slams into his prostate again, and Tyson promptly forgets about it. 

Suddenly, Gabe is speeding up, and he groans against Tyson’s neck. “Where do you want it?” he asks, looking up at Tyson with his eyes blown out.

“Put me down.” Tyson tells him, and Gabe pulls him off, laying him down as gently as possible. As soon as he’s free, Tyson jumps between Gabe’s thighs, peeling off the condom to free Gabe’s cock for his hands and his tongue, striping him as quickly as possible. Tyson digs a hand into Gabe’s thigh and has another cradle his balls as he licks at Gabe’s cock, heavy and purposeful. 

Finally, Gabe groans again, deeper this time. “Tys,” he says, staring into Tyson’s eyes as he cums all over Tyson’s face. Some of it gets into Tyson’s mouth, and he laps that up greedily licking his lips, but most of it paints Tyson’s face, the hollow of his cheeks, his forehead, some of it landing in his curls, and some still bounces off his chin and hits Gabe in the chest. 

“Jesus.” Gabe says, reverently, at the sight of him.

“You gonna clean up your mess, captain?” Tyson asks, his voice scratchy and completely fucked out. Gabe laughs, and moves in to kiss him clean as best he can. 

//

“You messed up my hair,” Tyson says, later, wrapped around Gabe, half-determined to count the freckles on his back with kisses. “You definitely messed up my jersey.” 

Gabe rakes a hand through Tyson’s curls, and glances at the jersey, which sits crumpled and stained at the foot of the bed. “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s kind of like I got it autographed by my favorite player.” 

“Oh, I’m your favorite player now?” Tyson teases. 

“Nah,” Gabe answers, turning around to smirk at Tyson. “I’m my favorite player.” 

Tyson tries to bite him on the shoulder, but Gabe just turns it into a kiss. 

// 

A few weeks later he and Gabe watch a new Altitude segment together in Gabe’s bed, Zoey snoozing at their feet. Comph had somehow managed to charm Lauren into letting him host a segment where Josty tries on those glasses that let colorblind people see colors. 

“They’re not subtle, are they?” Gabe notes, as Josty ignores literally everything else in the room to obsess about JT’s hair.

Tyson murmurs from his place, laying on Gabe’s chest. “We were never this bad, were we?” 

“Are you kidding me?” Gabe chuckles, letting his fingers rest in Tyson’s hair. “We were worse. Well, you were worse.” 

“Fuck you.” Tyson snipes, though there’s no real bite to it. 

“You do, all the time.” Gabe reminds him, smiling wolfishly. “You’re very good at it.” 

Tyson rolls his eyes, and leans over to grab his phone off the nightstand. “I’m going to Facetime them.” He says, ignoring a text from EJ that was just a horse emoji and a gun emoji to get to his contacts. It rings twice before JT answers, and Tyson puts it on speakerphone. 

“You and Josty need to stop telling the entire world you’re banging, bro.” Tyson says, forgoing a greeting. 

“Did we do that?” JT asks, blinking up at the two of them. 

“My sister thinks you’re a cute couple.” Gabe pipes up, helpfully. 

“Oh cool, thank her for us.” JT says, unperturbed. 

“I’m just saying, this whole glasses thing, bud…” Tyson starts, when there’s a shuffling from Comph’s end, and Josty shows up on screen, smiling brightly. 

“Tyson Tip #7!” Josty interjects, making a peace sign with his fingers. “We’re gonna be gay on camera. Screw you, we’re in love!” Comph bursts out laughing in the background, and Josty flips them off, pulling Comph into the frame to kiss him before turning off the call. 

Tyson blinks. “Well, he’s got you there.” Gabe tells him, barely containing his own laughter. 

“Shut up, Landesnerd,” Tyson says, and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> i've got a [ tumblr](http://samgirard.tumblr.com), if you want to peer pressure me into writing a companion where josty tries to seduce comph through the power of collaborative roleplaying tabletop games


End file.
